Shelter from the Storm

by Patricia Rice

  Remembering Marshall’s quiet charm, she forced herself to relax. He would do everything that was proper in the morning. Surely he had to return and pay the hotel clerk sometime. He would be thrilled to see her, but not if she were dirty and exhausted.

  She removed her stays and buried them under the petticoats. Wearing only stockings and chemise, she washed as thoroughly as she was able. Then, hesitantly listening for telltale footsteps in the hall outside, she pulled off the long-sleeved chemise and quickly squirmed into her nightgown. Then she sat on the edge of the bed to remove her shoes and stockings.

  The candle had nearly guttered out by the time she was done, and, relieved, Laura blew it out. The stifling heat seemed a little less miserable now that she was clean and the cool lawn gown was all that covered her. Her breasts tingled as the soft cloth brushed against them, and she felt odd as she swung her legs between the sheets of Marshall’s bed. A lump formed in her stomach, and tensely she lay listening to the strange sounds.

  She was almost asleep when she heard the staggering footsteps outside her door. A long-forgotten memory flashed through her mind, the sound of her father’s footsteps as he returned to their cabin on the boat. She always knew when he had had a bad night and had been drinking by the sound of his footsteps outside the door.

  As she fought for full consciousness, Laura realized it couldn’t be her father, but the key turning in the lock came before she remembered where she was. Eyes so heavy she could scarcely open them, she could only gaze in dismay as a candle lit the darkness and Marshall appeared in the doorway.

  This wasn’t the dashing, debonair Marshall she remembered in tailored uniform and smelling of bay rum. This Marshall hadn’t shaved in days, his shirttails hung partially out of his buckskins, and he seemed to have lost coat and cravat. He also stank of cigar smoke and cheap whiskey, returning even more unpleasant memories. Laura pulled the sheet up to her chin and stared at him uncertainly.

  Marshall returned the stare, his incredulous gaze taking in her neatly plaited braid and childish nightgown. He staggered, found a chair, and collapsed into it.

  “Laura?”

  “Marshall. I am sorry. I didn’t think you would be returning until tomorrow. I had to come. Don’t you see? You should have come to me before you left. I could have told you that it didn’t matter.” Nervously Laura sat up in bed and poured out bits and pieces of phrases she had been practicing for days. They didn’t seem to go together as smoothly as she had planned, but she didn’t know how to remedy that right now.

  His incredulity turned to a sneer. “What doesn’t matter? That you have no money? That you’re as penniless as I am? Did you come here with some romantic notion that you could live on love alone? Or did you have the sense to empty your uncle’s safe before you left?”

  Laura watched in horror as Marshall grabbed her reticule from the dresser and emptied out the few remaining coins in there. She had sewn her extra cash into the lining of her carpetbag, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and she could say nothing. He was drunk, very drunk. He didn’t know what he was saying.

  Marshall pocketed the few coins in disgust, then sat down again to remove his boots. “As long as you came all this way, I won’t deny you the pleasure of my company, my dear. I’ve had a rotten night, and I could use a little comfort. If your uncle hadn’t thrown me out I could be in the warm arms of that little maid at the Breckinridges’ tonight. I always thought I could make a good Southerner. I can drink whiskey with the best of them, gamble as unwisely on the horses, and appreciate the sweet taste of dark meat come day’s end. Don’t you think that qualifies me, sweetheart?”

  Shocked into paralysis, Laura could only watch as he removed his trousers, leaving only his long shirt and his stockings to cover his nakedness. She stared at his hairy knees in growing horror and did not dare raise her eyes as his words battered her with their subtle cruelty. He had never been interested in her. He only wanted the kind of life he had thought she would bring. It had all just been a pleasant and amusing episode for him. It had never concerned him that her affections might be engaged.

  As he approached the bed, Laura regained her senses and fled from the other side, tearing the sheet away with her to wrap around herself. Marshall staggered at the suddenness of her flight, then caught himself on the edge of the bed. Drunk, he fell to the mattress where she had just been and gazed at her outraged innocence in self-indulgent amusement.

  “You might as well get some pleasure out of this debacle, Miss Kincaid. I’ll not marry you, but I’ll teach you what it takes to be a whore. Your uncle isn’t going to welcome you back with open arms, and you’ll have to live somehow. Come here, and I’ll show you that it’s quite a pleasant way to live. You won’t even have to wear those hated crinolines and petticoats again.”

  Laura felt sick as he threw her whispered confidences back in her face. She had thought she was being daring and sophisticated by confiding such things under his encouragement. Instead, she was only providing him with titillating tidbits to bandy about. How could she have been so blind about his interest in her?

  As Marshall sprawled out in the bed and watched her cowering in the corner, Laura realized her mistake. He was interested in her, but not for the reasons she had so romantically imagined. He had seen her as a ticket to wealth at first. Now he saw her as an object of temporary pleasures. His interest was in himself; all she had seen was its reflection. She shuddered and sat down in the chair he had just abandoned.

  Marshall shrugged and closed his eyes. “When you get tired of sitting there, come on over. I’ll not be going anywhere soon.”

  His soft snores filled the air shortly after. Laura sat and watched the candle he had lit until it guttered out. Except for Marshall’s snores and the pounding of her heart, the night was silent. Rigidly she clung to the protection of the sheet and stared into the darkness. She closed her mind to his words, refused to think of the future. All she could do was cling to the present and pray that the horror would end.

  When she woke, she was curled on the hard wooden floor, and Marshall was gone. She stared at the empty bed in disbelief and wondered if it had just been a nightmare. The empty reticule on the floor belied that thought.

  The man at the desk below shattered any other illusions she might possess. Addressing her as “Mrs. Brown,” he politely informed her the troops had moved out early this morning and that her husband had said she would take care of the hotel bill. The expression on his face and the sheriff leaning over the far end of the counter warned of the futility of argument.

  Chapter 5

  As the rolling hills of bluegrass slipped by the train window, Laura began to relax and even managed a pleasant smile for the soldier in the opposite seat. Almost home. Home, to shaded lawns and green pastures and frolicking yearlings. To Henry and Jemima and Doc Broadbent. To the cool porch and spacious rooms of Stone Creek Farm. She might be arriving as a dependent once again, but at least the quality of life would be a significant improvement over these last few years.

  Marshall’s hotel bill had eliminated her small hoard of cash. She couldn’t have returned home then if she had wanted to, even if pride would have allowed her to admit her foolishness. At the headstrong age of seventeen she could never have admitted her error. Even now she was content to hide it, knowing how wrong she had been to follow her heart and not her head.

  She had nearly starved those first few weeks while she washed dishes and scrubbed floors in return for a place to sleep. It had been humiliating to an extreme, devastating to the few remnants of her pride. But once she explained her husband was in the army, people began to look on her more kindly. Eventually she had found work sewing for one of the dress shops in town. After a while she knew enough people to start taking in mending and sewing on her own. The town was poor and her earnings were meager, but she had managed, until eventually she could even hoard a penny or two, always with the distant dream of Stone Creek in mind.

  After a year or two
of this life, everyone in Cairo knew her, and several of the women she went to church with began to question her about Marshall’s whereabouts. Laura had lied about letters when questioned, and after Marshall’s unit was involved in a particularly bloody battle, she didn’t mention the letters anymore. She simply donned black, and all questions had ended. Little did the good ladies know that she merely prayed the wretch was dead.

  The widow’s weeds had worked wonders in Cairo, and Laura felt confident they would do the same in Stone Creek. She had written Sallie that she and Marshall were married. Who was there to protest she was not? To this day she had no idea if Marshall had survived the war, but he would certainly never return to Stone Creek looking for her if he had. It was a perfectly safe little lie that lent her respectability.

  The Bluegrass Special rattled into the Stone Creek depot, and Laura rubbed at the dirty glass in hopes of seeing familiar faces. The war had sporadically struck at this wealthy area of Kentucky, but only Morgan’s raiders had done any amount of damage, she knew. They had pillaged the countryside, driven the Union Army in circles with the antics of their telegraph operator and his false messages, and destroyed the property of Union supporters wherever they could. But they had left the town of Stone Creek relatively intact. The depot looked only a little older than when she had left.

  The only traveling gown Laura owned was the same one she had left in. She had grown an inch or more since then, and her bosom was a little fuller. It had taken long hours of work to lower the hem, tighten and add ruching to the unfashionably full sleeves, and let out the bodice seams, but Laura was quite proud of her handiwork. Black braid hid the seam and hem lines and added the touch of mourning necessary for her widowed state. She stepped off the train in almost the same elegance as she had once entered it.

  On the platform Laura searched for someone to help her carry the carpetbag holding all her worldly possessions. She had very little money left after paying for meals and fares, and she had no idea of the cost of paying someone to take her out to the farm. She had hoped Henry would be here to meet her, but as she looked at the strangers hurrying by, she realized she had only been conjuring up fantasies of the past, not the reality of the present.

  Things had changed, but she had just been too caught up in her memories to notice it. As she carried her bag into the street, Laura could see that the number of black faces around her had diminished. Usually the drivers of the buggies and farm carts were black, and the servants tripping along behind their mistresses carrying packages were black. None of these familiar sights greeted her now. She had been imagining a place that no longer existed.

  Although Kentuckians claimed the Emancipation Act had had no effect on them, since they were not among the secessionist states, the military had declared martial law and issued passes to any black person seeking one, Laura had read in the papers.

  Obviously the slaves had taken their freedom and left. She couldn’t blame them, she supposed. There was little enough here to make a living for a white man unless he owned land. With no education and no training, what could a black man do? Outsiders were never welcome. Freed slaves would be anathema to a community like this. She wondered where house servants like Henry and Jemima might go.

  It became obvious that no one had come for her, whatever the case might be. She had wired Sallie of her arrival, but she had no idea of the conditions at the farm. Perhaps they had no servants at all, and with Ward ill . . . Laura refused to think further than that. Too much had been lost in these years. She wouldn’t create more losses in her mind.

  Doc Broadbent would know how things stood. Perhaps he’d know somebody who could give her a ride. She lifted her heavy bag and started down the street.

  People stared as she went by. Several gentlemen lifted their hats to her, but intent on her purpose, Laura paid them little heed. Isolated on the farm, she had learned little of the townspeople other than that they always remarked upon strangers. If they recognized her through her short veil, they didn’t give evidence of it, so she assumed they thought her a new arrival. Even so, it felt odd to have men lifting their hats to her. When she was here last, she had always been trailing Sallie, and it was always Sallie who attracted notice.

  Entering by the back gate, Laura caught Doc Broadbent just hitching his horse to his buggy. She halted, not wishing to interfere if it were an emergency. Nearing thirty-five, he was still a young man, but he moved with an old man’s slowness. His lined face looked tired and stern, and she wondered if he had ever remarried.

  Certainly there ought to be a plenitude of women available from whom to choose. He wasn’t rich, but he was comfortable. And if his angular face wasn’t exactly handsome, it possessed an intelligence and kindness to make up the lack. Laura rather thought the late president’s face looked much like that, although the doctor’s wasn’t as harsh-boned as the daguerreotypes she had seen of Mr. Lincoln.

  Just as she determined to step forward, he looked up. She could see him hesitate, and then his mouth turned upward in a weary smile of welcome.

  “Laura! Laura Kincaid, as I live and breathe! You came back!” His glance then encompassed the black bonnet and bands of mourning, and his smile faded. “Sallie told me you lost your husband in the war. I’m sorry, child.”

  Laura shook back the encompassing bonnet and let the sun shine on her hair in a gesture of relief and freedom. “It’s been a long time, Doc. There’s nothing to be sorry for. How’s Ward? I told Sallie I’d be back to help, but there wasn’t anyone at the station.”

  He immediately finished fastening the bridle and offered a hand to lift her up. “Come on, I was going that way. You’ll be a sight for sore eyes out there, I reckon.” He climbed up in the seat beside her and clucked the mare into a walk. “Ward’s about as well as can be expected. A healthy young man like that has a hard time adjusting to the life of an invalid.”

  An invalid. Laura could not imagine that gallant young man as an invalid. Or Sallie dealing well with one. She grimaced at the thought. “Tell me what’s been happening. Sallie’s a terrible correspondent. I only hear when someone dies or takes ill. And have you heard from Cash? It’s the funniest thing, but I’ve been remembering him lately.”

  Jonathan Broadbent chuckled and flicked his whip as the carriage rolled into the street and headed for the country. “Sallie’s a caution, I don’t deny. It’s been hard for her, with both her parents dying like that, and now this business with Ward coming home injured. It’ll do her good to have a level head around. Whatever anyone might say, you’re the Kincaid with the best head on her shoulders. Even Cash noticed it when he wasn’t too busy looking out for himself. I had a letter from him just the other day. He doesn’t say much, just that he’s doing fine. He made it out to California when he left here, you know. It seems he has a bit of land and some horses, but he’s not one to puff himself up, so I can’t rightly tell how he is except by reading between the lines.”

  They gossiped companionably on the way out to the farm. Obviously lonely for someone who would listen, Doc didn’t notice that Laura evaded personal questions by turning them back to him. By the time they reached the stone fences of the farm, Laura began to feel as if she had come home at last.

  When they drove between the stone posts of the farm, she scanned the tree-lined lane eagerly for the first sight of the house. The warm bricks appeared through the thick foliage of elms and pin oaks. She caught a glimpse of a dark shutter and a window, then a corner of the columned porch.

  They lurched around the bend and the whole house veered into view. Laura observed the immense security of those familiar walls with satisfaction. The ivy had climbed farther up the side chimney than Uncle Matthew had ever allowed, but she liked the effect.

  The paint on the shutters and columns had faded and begun to peel. As she looked closer, she could see the vast expanse of emerald lawn had not been cut in a long time, the mock oranges and abelias hadn’t been trimmed, and honeysuckle was taking over the rose garden. Sallie had
never been much interested in gardening, so the disorder didn’t surprise Laura entirely.

  The shock came when the carriage rattled around the drive and she could see the burned ruins of the once- glorious stables. She had expected neglect. Things had not been going well when she left, and the war would have drained away the labor and finances, but there had been no battles in this area. Even Morgan had left them alone. What could have happened to the stables?

  Jonathan caught her surprise and alarm, and he shook his head in concern. “The aftereffects of war, Miss Laura. All the thousands of men who once fought for our country and against it are now trying to make their way back home or discovering they have no homes. They’ve been fighting for four long years, many since they were boys. Fighting is the only life they know.”

  That didn’t explain the stables, and Laura watched him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

  He slowly wound his whip as he spoke. “There’s no excuse for what they do, of course. They can’t go on fighting forever, but around here it looks like they’re going to try. There’s one group that calls themselves the Raiders, and they’ll use any excuse to lynch a black man or steal from a Union supporter. They’ve been helping the slave owners hide their slaves and keeping them penned up so the soldiers can’t find them. Then there’s the Regulators, who’ve decided the law can’t protect peaceful citizens, so they set out to make their own law and order.”

  Doc shifted uncomfortably on the cushioned seat of the ancient barouche. “If you’ll pardon my language, Miss Laura, it’s just another excuse for rape and pillaging, one group getting even with the other. I shouldn’t be saying these things to a lady, but you have a right to know what to expect. The Raiders came out here one night looking for trouble. Ward held them off with a rifle and one servant, but he couldn’t save the stables. They stole the last of the horses and burned the stables to the ground.”